“Looking for some information about strip mining and environmental concerns.”
“Sounds like something my mama would do. She always had a curiosity about things, you know? She was so curious, you know, she ran off with the circus.”
“Your mom is in the circus?” Grayson gasped.
“No, honey,” Rebecca laughed. “Jo Lynn’s mom didn’t run away with a circus,” she said with all authority, then looked uncertainly at Jo Lynn. “Did she?”
“Of course not!” Jo Lynn grinned, her dentures stark white against her leathery skin. “That’s just what my grandma used to tell us kids to make us feel better,” she explained as she walked toward the back door, where she paused, looking absently out the screen door. “I suspect she was trying to put a little lipstick on that pig, ‘cause I know for a fact it was just a carnival—you think Barnum and Bailey ever came to Ruby Falls?” She laughed, shook her head as she pushed the screen door open and marched through it. “Grayson, you take good care of them dogs, now!” she called as she bounded down the steps, leaving Grayson and Rebecca to gape at her as she cranked up the golf cart she used to travel the thatch of blackjack oak between their houses.
A half hour later, with Grayson napping in his race car bed, Rebecca was on page sixteen of the seemingly endless list of Web sites devoted to either the benefits or detriments of strip mining. Yet in pages and pages of Web sites and reference links, there was one thing that was so conspicuous that it might as well have been an elephant standing in her kitchen. Strip mining was not, apparently, a major problem in Texas. It was a problem in one spot near Austin about which Texas Monthly had reported.
How big of a moron could one person be? She’d have to say about five feet ten inches and one hundred and thirty divorce-skinny pounds, because that horrible devil of a man was right. So much for her inarguable stance on protecting natural habitats. Rebecca buried her face in her hands: she had no business being in this group of campaign people, absolutely none. But no way was she turning back now—she’d turned back all her life, and this time, she was pushing forward, because this gig had too much riding on it for her.
Rebecca went to the fridge, opened it wide, and stood, staring blindly at the contents. She could not erase the image of one supreme, holier-than-thou, smiling Matt Popinjay when she reported back that maybe strip mining wasn’t such a big deal after all. Frankly, she’d rather be tossed into a murky hole of water and eaten by piranhas, or whatever it was they did on those reality TV shows, but she was not going to let that pompous ass intimidate her.
Rebecca slammed the fridge door shut without taking anything out and marched back to her computer, sat hard, glaring at Google as if it was that thing’s fault, and punched in TEXAS POLITICS.
Unqualified Applicant Rule 8: Never let them see you cry.
Chapter Eight
IGNORAMUS, n. A person unacquainted with certain kinds of knowledge familiar to yourself, and haying certain other kinds that you know nothing about . . .
THE DEVIL’S DICTIONARY
Positive Affirmations of My Life:
1.Google.com
2.Jo Lynn
3.I am not, nor have I ever been, as pompous as Mr. Big Pants (must find alternative source for insult vocab other than Cartoon Network)
As it turned out, the next day dawned gloriously brilliant, and Rebecca happily sucked the early spring air into her lungs during her predawn moment of becoming one with nature. This day was exactly the type the book, A Brand-New Day: Starting Up and Starting Over, said was perfect for fostering attacks on new challenges.
Later that afternoon, with the newly named Frank lying at the foot of her bed and Bean lying half under it, she dressed in black slacks, a sleeveless sky blue sweater, and matching black and blue checkered sandals (having determined that in Austin, Chanel suits were perhaps a bit overstated, unless one was someone really important, like Sandra Bullock). After ushering the dogs outside, Rebecca popped into her Range Rover and hummed cheerfully along to her Modern Mozart as she sped down the two-lane road. Beside her was a brand-new ultra-chic briefcase, which was, for once, holding something besides a lipstick, a pen, and a blank notebook. In the back was a cardboard box stuffed with some surprises for the campaign staff and the new campaign offices.
She pulled into the parking lot of the Little Maverick Preschool just as Grayson appeared with his enormous backpack. Head down, he walked in that determined way of his to the Range Rover and climbed inside to his car seat.
“Hey, kiddo,” Rebecca said, reaching back to help him with his seat belt. “How was your day?”
“Okay.” He looked out the window.
“So what did you do today?”
“I pushed Taylor down,” he said, as if that was as commonplace as nap time; which, alarmingly, it was fast becoming.